


The Echoes of Her Name

by codenamecynic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He resents her, wants her, hates her, needs her. Hawke & Anders, a short, brutal love story. What happens when reality doesn't live up to the fantasies we create for ourselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for heavy emotional themes, sex, references to violence and general angst.

_Get out._ These words are hot coals, burning into the dry emptiness of her heart.

She is numb, and helpless. Hawke turns back to stare at the rickety door to their home in Lowtown, the door she's just closed, perhaps forever. She reaches out to touch it with aching, shaking fingers, once, longingly, and forces herself to turn away before the sound of her mother's wrenching sobs can pierce through the barrier and crawl into her ears with their accusation. Before she reaches into that pouch on her belt, the one that holds the vial half-full of the poison she'd held to Bethany's lips, and is tempted again to swallow it.

She is filthy, bloody, and stinking of darkspawn, without even so much coin in her pockets to make her worth robbing for all that she will soon be a wealthy woman. She will not trouble Varric, though. She knows he had loved her sister, called her Sunshine, and she will not allow herself to add to his grief or his guilt. He has Bartrand to worry about, after all, and that is more than enough. Fenris for his part will not even look her in the face and she cannot find it in her to blame him. He had seen the truth of her, there in the Deep Roads. He knows now what she was capable of, what hideous, terrible, necessary things she can do.

The expedition is a success, if one can call it that. It has come at too high a cost.

She lets her feet lead her blindly through the streets to the doorstep of the only one she can think will welcome her. Someone who knows the face of the hideous, the terrible, and the necessary and does not flinch away.

**

He leaves a bowl of milk out for the cats and finds her sitting with her back against the wall of his clinic, her knees hugged to her chest. She seems to be asleep, and Anders cannot tell how long she has been sitting there. Her silent appearance is startling; he had not known yet that they were back, still breathlessly awaiting word from Varric that they had returned safely and hoping against hope that the results are worth celebrating. But no word has come and there Hawke is on his doorstep, blood spattered and dirty.

He thinks he might be dreaming, hallucinations born of concern for those he has come to call friends, and because even these few weeks have been a torment of missing her. He explores the thought, letting his hand come down to brush through her hair; it is stiff and matted beneath his fingertips.

A tendril of fear winds through him, white-hot and dizzying, and he sinks to his knees to look into her face. "Hawke?"

"Anders."

Not sleeping then. Relief brushes aside the fear.

For some reason she is smiling; it is a hideous, terrible smile that wavers on the verge of something very like tears. "Forgive me, but I don't think I can stand up."

It is all the excuse he needs to hook his arms around her back and beneath her bent knees, and he lifts her up against his chest. He is strong for a mage, stronger than his lean frame implies, and she is only a light burden even in her armor. She does not move much, and her body feels brittle and incorporeal in his arms.

_Ironic isn't it, how everything you touch ends up broken?_

He cannot be sure if that is Justice ringing bitter words in his ears or just his own troubled mind. For all that he often fantasizes about what it would be like to hold her, this is not what he pictures.

He carries her into the clinic and kicks the door closed behind them, a sign to those who come looking that he should not be disturbed. As gently as he can he sets her down on one of the cots and comes to his knees yet again, looking up at her with a brow furrowed with worry and concern. She sits up on her own and yet her eyes are closed. The expression on her face is a mask, unreadable, but she wears her weariness like a cloak that settles heavy on her shoulders.

Her armor is filthy, crusted with blood and gore. He can smell the taint of darkspawn blood on her and the iron bitterness of it makes his stomach clench and roil, bringing back unpleasant memories that he hastens to shove to the back of his mind. _Ignoring it will not make it go away._ Ruthlessly he shoves Justice down as well, holding him there until his presence fades.

Hawke sits still while he gently strips her of her armor, making a pile of it to one side. Her passive compliance is so unlike her it makes his heart thunder in his chest, convinced she is dying there before his eyes until he checks every inch of her over and finds nothing more than a few scrapes that are effortlessly eased away.

He frowns, confused, and begins to look again in earnest when she finally speaks. Her voice does not break, but she does not sound like herself, only a hollow echo. "Bethany is dead, Anders. I killed her."

It all comes pouring out of her then, and he falls back, his hands coming away from her to rest useless in his lap.

"I had to. I didn't have a choice. The Taint- we were betrayed. Bartrand left us for dead, and there was nothing I… Nothing that could be done. We were so far away from any help, and she tried to be so strong, but at the end…" He watches as Hawke swallows and reaches, the half-empty vial of dark liquid coming almost too easily to her hand. She gives it to him, the bottle dropping out of her cold fingers as though she cannot really even feel that it is there. "She couldn't."

It was strong poison he recognizes; the end would have been swift and gentle. The small glass bottle feels like fire in his hand and he can only wonder why she's held on to it, certain the reminder would bring nothing but pain. And then it comes to him and his gaze narrows on her, a realization growing of the purpose of this aching memento pressed into his palm.

She hands him the bottle as a final act of courage and a silent plea for forgiveness. If he were to tell her to drink it, to drain the vial dry, she'd do it.

_Do it,_ Justice whispers, _and let us be free of this distraction._

The thought makes him sick, and he tucks the poison away within his robes.

She is pale and drawn, her eyes closed against whatever demons might be there to devour her if she opens them. He can see the regret on her face, a flash of loneliness across her features. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here. I just… couldn't think of anywhere else to go. It is my fault, and I understand if you blame me." _Like everybody else._ He hears those unspoken words as though they were uttered aloud, and wonders what has been said to her, who has dared to put those thoughts in her mind.

_Poor kitten_. _Poor little bird._ The sight of her destroys him.

She tries to stand but is shaky on her legs, and his hands close warm around her icy shoulders. "Stay."

Her lips tighten and for a moment he thinks she might weep, but no tears come. "Stay. Just stay." The words are repeated, whispered over and over as his hands come up to cup her cheeks, to smooth back the wild locks of hair from her face. When she finally nods he rises and wraps her in a blanket, moving off into the background to draw her a bath. The water in Darktown isn't the cleanest, but at least with the help of a small tingle of magic he can make it warm.

She waits silently with her head bowed, motionless whenever he casts her worried glances over his shoulder. When all is ready she lets him lift her again, and he helps her to stand when it seems like her legs will not hold her. He divests her of the blanket and the stained, stiffened padding beneath her armor, hesitating to strip away her smallclothes until she lifts one shoulder in a listless shrug of inconsequence.

The tub is too small for him to use easily for anything resembling a soaking, but with her legs folded to her chest it is room enough to serve her needs. As he kneels again in the dirt and gently begins to wash the blood and sweat from her back, he realizes that this is the first time he's ever seen her fully unclothed. This too is not as he imagined, and he finds himself grateful that no ill-timed desire rises to hinder him and make him hate himself.

Her body is a panoply of bruises, a map of her trials and the unfortunate hurts inflicted on her skin. Her muscles are taut, strained, and she flinches now and again even beneath the excruciating gentleness of his touch. He can only imagine what happened to her, in darkness down there in the Deep Roads. She said they'd been betrayed; her blistered and swollen feet make him wonder how far they must have travelled to escape.

He finds the row of wounds on her forearm; four parallel cuts, clean and even in length in contrast to the ragged wounds left behind by darkspawn swords, and his voice breaks on her name. He is terrified by the power of this tragedy; it has taken all of the light out of her and pushed her to harm herself.

"It helps," is all she can say, and her arm is pulled from his grasp and held to her chest, in equal measures protective and ashamed. It hurts him to see her like this, but still he understands. He wears his own scars, his own maps of bitterness, sorrow, and better things left behind.

His robes are filthy from kneeling on the floor, and now they are wet, but he doesn't care. His arms come around her from behind and he pulls her back against him, just wanting to hold her for a moment, to protect her. She allows him this, lets him, as if they are both afraid that if he lets go she'll simply disappear.

She is so unnaturally quiet; her stillness is unsettling. He finds himself wishing that she'd cry, just to have it out of her but it seems she's forgotten how. The bottle of poison seems to burn against him where he's secreted it inside his robes.

"I should have been there with you," he murmurs into her hair. "I should not have let you go."

"I could not ask that of you, Grey Warden or no. Not when you didn't wish to come. I could not have forced that nightmare on you."

Nightmare. The word is apt. "What you did for Bethany was a great act of compassion."

She sighs, her body seeming to shrink inward, fading by degrees. "I know. It does not make it any easier."

**

He finds her something to wear eventually, one of his much-darned shirts that could be more or less relied upon to be clean. Anders allows himself a small thrill of satisfaction upon seeing how it dwarfs her, but holds himself in check even as he lifts her in his arms again and carries her to his bed so that her newly-clean feet won't have to touch the now somewhat muddied floor.

It is his every intention to sleep on one of the cots in the clinic, or even on the floor of the tiny partitioned space he calls his bedchamber, but when her hand closes on his sleeve when he begins to draw away, he buckles under the longing and crawls in with her. She curls up on her side and tucks her body against his like a kitten seeking to nestle beneath his chin. He lets his arms come around her so achingly slowly, afraid to alarm her now that she seems to have found some small measure of peace. She doesn't protest and so he holds her, resting his stubbled cheek against the freshly washed softness of her hair. Holds her close, and tries to make himself believe that all of his intentions are altruistic.

_You're just torturing yourself._ On that, both he and Justice can agree.


	2. Chapter 2

He isn't sure how it happens, but when he wakes in the early hours of morning their positions are reversed and somehow it is he who has ended up in her arms. He can hear her heart beating where his head lies against her chest; the sound is slow but strong, healthy, and in even in his still-dreaming thoughts, he is grateful that the Taint has spared her.

This is his last moment of peace.

In the next instant he remembers where he is and who is there with him and he sits up as slowly as he can manage, quelling the instinct to jump away guiltily, fearful of disturbing her.

The laces at the throat of the shirt he's lent her have come undone in the night, laying bare a long expanse of gently curved white skin, a faint pink mark between her breasts where his head had rested. He is turning red, he can feel it, the shame-filled blush rising all the way to the roots of his hair at the thought that even asleep he has managed to overstep the bounds of their friendship because of this foolish, selfish thing that his body wants. Gingerly he reaches to pull the laces tight again, closing the gap in the shirt.

It was only then that he realizes she is watching him, those lyrium-blue eyes open and completely aware. Something plays across her lips that might be amusement, but is better interpreted for now as anger, just to be safe.

"Hawke, I'm sorry. Maker, I'm such an ass."

He tries to get up, to flee and be away from her, but his legs are tangled in the blankets they share. It makes his awkward movements even more jerky and stilted; he pictures himself as a one-winged bird, flapping in a futile attempt to get off the ground. The roaring of blood in his ears makes it impossible to hear anything for the very long, humiliating moment it takes him to realize she is laughing.

Laughing so hard she's almost crying. Maker save him, he does not know how it is possible to blush any harder, but he does.

He frowns and manages to disentangle himself enough to sit up on the edge of the bed, searching blindly for his boots. He's never felt more stupid in his life. Oh, he's sure he's been more stupid, certainly, having done more foolish things to warrant the feeling, though at this moment nothing comes to mind. He has more or less gracelessly unmanned himself in front of this powerful, perfect woman who in her laughter was going to refuse to let him live it down.

And then she'd probably tell Varric, and everything would just go straight to the deepest, darkest part of the void from there. He'll have to move. He'll never be able to show his face again.

He's so caught up in the thought that he puts his boot on the wrong foot and doesn't even realize.

But he doesn't feel the bed shift behind him, doesn't feel her move to sit up and lay against his back until the warmth of her is already there. And then suddenly he is too aware of it, too cognizant of the half-dressed woman in his bed who smells faintly of metal and more strongly of his soap.

"Don't go," she is saying, smothering the vestiges of her laughter into the back of his shoulder. He swears he can feel her lips there, burning like brands into his flesh. Her slender arms come to hook around his waist, hugging him back against her much as he'd held her before as she bathed. "Don't be angry, it was just very… endearing." He can feel her smiling, her chin and cheek still pressed to his shoulder. "Stay."

That word, the soft warmth of her body pressing against him through the layers of both of their clothes, it undoes him.

"Do you know what you're asking me?" The words come out as coiled and tight as his body feels. "You can't tease me like this, Hawke, I'm still just a man. Not a very good one, maybe, but still a man. I want-" His eyes squeeze shut then, unaware until this moment of just how much he does want. A year of aching and bending to the whims of his own imagination does not even come close to one night of chaste torment with her merely asleep at his side.

Her hold eases from around him and he sighs at the inevitable, sure that she will pull away, pull on her clothing and leave him with his hasty confession still ringing in the empty air around him. He can't begin to understand how to respond when her hands move over his sides and up along his spine, stroking softly with those deft, sure motions that are hers and hers alone.

Her voice whispers, soft, full of shadows and unspoken promises. "Stay."

Something in him breaks and he is like a man possessed – something he will only come to find the irony in later when reminded of it in Justice's disapproving tones. He turns and half-lifts, half-drags her into his lap, his hands on her waist making the shirt she wears bunch beneath his grip, dragging the hem up the smooth, well-muscled length of her thigh.

She looks shocked for a moment, and then pleased, a very feline smirk of self-satisfaction fleeting over her features. It disappears when he fists his hand in her hair and pulls her head back with a little jerk, clouding over with heat.

He tries to stop. He does. Truly. He tries to wait, to give her a breath to tell him to let her go. But that split second that passes between them when their eyes meet, his wild and needy, hers bottomless and encouraging, robs him of all his self-control.

His mouth comes down to take hers. The touch is a quick flash of fire and he crushes her to him, forgetting for a moment that she is grieving, of the bruises that dot her skin like spilled ink. She tastes of the tea he'd made her drink the night before to help her sleep, of herbs and the earth and honey. She is soft, so soft, but hard too, the taut ripple of hard-won muscle stoking fires beneath his hands.

Her fingers are clever, ambitious, and they find their way to the back of his neck, wrapping themselves around the ponytail he gathers his hair into and jerking his head back with more force even than when he had done it to her, and his mouth leaves hers as she forces his chin to tip. Her lips are demanding as they work their way along his jaw, sending tendrils of raw pleasure to the very center of his being.

He must be dreaming. He must be hallucinating again. He's already so damn hard, and he throbs with every frantic beat of his heart.

She yanks aside his shirt to bare his shoulder, bites him.

His vision goes white with the pain-pleasure of it.

Her hand is insistent at the fastenings of his clothes, and he lifts her and turns, throwing her down on the small bed. She reaches for him and he grasps her wrists, his hands taking hers so hard each palm makes a slapping sound. He pins her arms above her head and makes her gasp, his body pressing her down, one hard knee wedged between her thighs, against the very core of her.

"This has plagued me since I met you." His voice is rough, his caramel eyes dark. "Every day I have watched you and ached for you, always wanting what I could never have. Could never deserve to have."

She is looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and impatience, but he has to finish. "I would like to be a gentle, tender lover, but I can't- I don't think I can-"

She silences him with a kiss, her body straining upward to press her mouth to his as her hips writhe, forcing a reaction from him, the response she wants. "If you break me, you can fix me later."

And because her words draw on something dark and forbidden within him he grips her harder, holds her with one hand as he strips himself bare, never so eager before to be rid of clothing.

She is soft, but she is hard too, and they hurt each other, lost in the throes of a violent, stolen pleasure. His touch drowns the sound of screams and clashing metal in her ears, and the smell of her, the taste, the texture of her skin reminds him that he is a man, still a man like any other, underneath the burning compulsion of his cause and a mountain of other worse mistakes.

He sinks into her and her lips shape his name, and pleasure spins out between them, between the ruddy, healthy flush of their bodies. It is still over, far too quickly over, but she only smiles an enigma and strokes his brow, promising of other times to come.


	3. Chapter 3

He takes her hard and often, enough to satisfy the prolonged ache, the burning wrapped up tight within him during the long days before. He is rough with her, rougher than he likes, and the loving moments afterward are often spent in hushed apologies and his magic's gentle coaxing of bruises from her flesh.

But when his hands turn to tenderness, gentle on her skin, she takes control and plays the aggressor, taunting and teasing him until he loses himself and returns to the hardness once more.

It is slowly killing him.

Nothing with Hawke has been the way he imagined so often, lying alone in the darkness of his clinic, the image of her face hovering before him behind closed eyes.

He has loved her from afar, desperately, completely, with no hope that she would ever give him cause to plead his case nor feeling even wholly the right to do so, broken as he is. And now she is here beside him more often than not, spending the night in his bed and the days at his side, toiling over menial things that can hardly matter to her if not for his sake. She has shared herself with him with such trust that he can only tread around her with quiet, cautious steps, careful to remain worthy of her conviction.

It is not right that he should be resentful of her because the kind of love she needs is not the kind of love he wants to give her. It is not right to find it frustrating that she will not tell him what secrets those blue eyes hold, what hurts and horrors they have seen. He should feel honored that she's come to him, that she's stayed to find the comfort that he can provide, even if at times it is at arm's length. She has just lost her sister; it is not right for him to expect more. She has given him her body and has shown him that he has a place in her heart, why can he not be content with that? Why must it feel like he must take possession of the entirety of her soul, too, before it will satisfy the ache in him?

Justice was right, he is obsessed. It is just as dangerous as standing in a hay loft, playing with fire.

And still he cannot be satisfied, not even when he takes his frustration out on her flesh and his hands riddle bruises up and down her arms, and she lies limp and spent and vulnerable beneath him.

**

He is standing at the bank of a river, and the air is golden in a way it only can be in the height of spring when sunlight comes through fresh green leaves. His feet are bare in the grass and it is soft under him, the sounds of water a constant murmur, holding the memories of snow.

There is a woman in the river, all pale skin and dark hair, and it is then that he knows that this is a memory, a dream.

The setting takes on a shape – Sundermount. They are at the base of the mountain enjoying an unexpectedly warm day in the midst of the rain and cold. She is washing a battle from her skin. It is something he loves about her that he also finds amusing, that she must always be clean. It is a ritual he intrudes upon – she does not know he is there.

When it was real he had blushed and stumbled away, embarrassed and ashamed of the way his eyes lingered on her naked back, wishing to trace the rivulets coursing down her flesh with his fingertips, wishing to lick the beaded water from her skin. But this is just a dream, and so he stays, sinking down into the grass on the bank of the river to watch his lover as she moves like a water sprite, graceful among the eddies.

She dips and ducks down beneath the shimmering face of the water and he stands, moving to the river's edge to beckon to her when she resurfaces. She smiles that smile that is so typical of her, the bright flash of emotion that is so certain, so unapologetic, and takes his hand.

And then it is wrong, because her hand feels strange in his. Softer, gentler, more unsure. This dream world spins around him and it is no longer Hawke who stands there, naked in her glory, but her sister. Soft, adoring little Bethany.

He can hardly breathe.

The smile is different now, even if some of the features are the same. It is something soft, hesitant almost, and so sweet. Nervous, he realizes, and remembers how the same look often flitted across her features when she had been… had been…

She's close suddenly and then her lips are on his, and again his mind swims with the incongruity of it. This kiss is not the kiss of a woman grown and confident, even cognizant, of her power to sway the mind of a man with such things. This kiss is a question, yielding and hesitant and wanting without demand.

And because it is just a dream, he gives into temptation like he never has before.

He kisses her, shaping the gentle curve of her cheek with his palm, sweeping his fingers through her hair. It is dark like her sister's, but longer. Her face is gentler, more rounded like the rest of her young body. Slender and strong, but without the hard planes and angles of the Hawke that he calls his. She is lush, generous, and his hands travel the familiar and yet unfamiliar curve of her hips, the pads of his fingertips sliding upward until his arms come around her.

He spreads his coat on the soft grass and he lays her body down on top of it, sinking into the supple sweetness of her.

He knows the wrongness of it, but his body wants, and it is only a dream. And so he loves her, all gentle kindness and tender indulgence, the way he wishes that he could love her sister.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time she goes out again, he is filled to the brim with fear. It is not a big job and they do not have need of his skills, so he stays behind to busy himself at the clinic, patching wounds and coaxing the chokedamp rot from the lungs of children.

She comes back to him after dark, and it begins again. She is bloody and bruised, and he bloodies and bruises her.

She leaves for longer next time and he is beside himself, unable to do simple things as her voice haunts his every step. He finds himself waiting, and waiting, and she only comes back to him when he is certain that she will not. It begins again, this time with the poison of his bitterness between them.

She does not understand how she robs him of himself, how he is a mess, useless without her. He is rough with her of his own accord and sometimes now she looks through him, as though she no longer recognizes his face.

He resents her, wants her, hates her, needs her. She buys her mother a house in Hightown but does not invite him there. She claims she would rather be with him here, away from the prying eyes of servants and her mother, but he does not believe her. Still, she comes back, she stays, and it makes him feel ashamed. All he can offer her is himself: his unreliable magic, his fracturing mind, his obsessive love, his small clinic in the very worst part of a dangerous city. He is nothing that she needs, and yet he cannot be without her.

Justice is quiet in her absence and he feels as if he is going mad with all of the silence in his head.

When she is there the spirit rumbles, is angry, grinding against his control like a rasp against the bars of a prison cell. It is not safe for her to be here, but he keeps her anyway, seeks to bind her to his side, to force her to stay.

**

The next time she comes back, she is wounded again and it is more than just bruises. A nasty gash ribbons her arm from shoulder to elbow, and her thigh bleeds freely.

"When you get shot with arrows, you're not supposed to just rip them out." He hears the heavy disapproval in his voice and he can't seem to force himself to smile.

She laughs, like she usually does when he scolds her, and lifts her uninjured shoulder in a semblance of a helpless shrug. "Now you tell me."

He doesn't find it funny and he scowls as he works, closing the wounds with what scant power he has left to him after a long day. Justice natters in the back of his mind and irritably he shoves the spirit away, forcing himself to concentrate. Silence descends and it is only when he is finished that he realizes her jokes and her laughter have died on her lips and she's watching him with a brow furrowed with concern.

He looks away hastily and starts to get up, but she stops him, her hand gentle on his sleeve. "Anders."

His name comes out like a question and he can feel himself getting red, heat rising along his throat all the way up to his ears, but he can't bear to meet her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"The arrow-"

"No, not the arrow. What's really wrong, Anders?" She guides his chin upward with her fingertips and looks into his face, but he looks down, pulls away. She catches his shoulders again, pulls him back. Frustration sweeps him, feeling himself quake, his stomach clutching at the nearness of her.

"Why can't you let me be gentle with you?" Everything that has built up bursts out of him now and he rises up onto his knees to put them level where she sits, his eyes meeting hers with their inherent accusation. His hands close around her shoulders and despite his words, he gives her a little shake, not realizing that his grasp has undone some of his work and her skin is wet and red beneath his palm.

She looks taken aback at the anger evident on his face, brow furrowing in confusion. His words and his hands are telling her different things, and for a moment she doesn't understand. "What do you- You mean… when we make love?"

She has never called it that before, never put a name to what they do here, tumbling around each other in the dark. He nods in answer, feeling the shame tugging at him again, held back only with the small tendril of hope that slips into his heart with her response.

She is silent for another long moment, her eyes on him searching, the expression in them something measuring, something more than confusion. "You want to be more gentle?" She asks finally, and her tone is careful, the words slow.

He sighs. "Yes. Yes, that's what I want."

"Then you might want to move your hand, that wound you just closed is leaking."

He might have laughed at her wry tone, empty of accusation as it was, but he couldn't, too full of something like horror as his hand came away wet with her blood. _Idiot,_ Justice comments drolly.

Anders ignores him, closing the wound again with a gentle brush of thumb and forefinger. She is still looking at him, watching him with those piercing blue eyes, and now he just feels foolish. When she speaks again, it's all he can do not to swallow his tongue.

"You need to go."

"I- What? Are you… You're kicking me out?"

She's trying not to smile, or something else, something he can't quite put a finger on. Her hand lifts to run through her hair in that age-old movement that is so a part of her. "Just for a few minutes. Let me have some time to wash up and get my thoughts in order, and then we'll do this right. I promise."

He paces outside in the alley for what seems like hours, impatient and yet afraid that he won't give her the time she needs, that he'll somehow ruin this.

She knows he's there, and the laughter is apparent in her voice when she calls his name. Feeling stupid, he pushes back through the door to find her waiting for him. The clinic is dark; she's doused every light but a single candle she's set near the bed they so often share, and it stands out like a beacon. She is silhouetted by its glow, and he realizes as he draws near that she's wearing his shirt again and nothing else; the worn and threadbare garment does little to obscure the lines of her body beneath it, all but transparent with the light behind.

She looks embarrassed, hands smoothing the fabric down from hip to thigh. "Had I known, I would have brought something more appropriate. Well, _bought_ something more appropriate. I hope this is alright."

She's nervous, and it makes his heart swell to bursting. He shushes her with a smile but does not touch her, merely allowing his eyes to drink their fill. She can't know what she does to him, her lithe body wrapped in his clothing, all long legs and bare feet. It spoke of comfort, of something simple and uncomplicated. "You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now."

She falls silent and he can't tell in the dark if she's blushing, but her skin is warm when his hands finally find their way to her. This time he is gentle, skimming the curve of her ribcage with his fingertips, tracing paths down to her narrow waist, to the subtle flare of her hips. This time they go slow, and her mouth is soft beneath his, yielding and uncertain. She lets him lead her, but this time it is different. There is no urgency, no fierce, quick passion. When she would have clawed at him before, when he would have shoved her down onto the bed or onto the floor, now he lifts her in his arms like the very first night she had come to him, and lays her down with such gentleness, such infinite patience.

He knows her body but he explores it again, drawing new maps with his fingers, with his lips. She is soft and yet hard, and where before she would have pulled him to her, flipped him onto his back with her agile strength, she remains pliant beneath him, limbs trembling with the effort to remain still except for where her hand comes up to loosen his hair from its tie, playing it through her fingers.

When he looks into her face she seems nervous, guarded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb sliding over her mouth as though memorizing every part of her features, painting her with his touch.

This is what he wants. She is what he wants. He divests them of their clothing and lies against her; she is warm and willing, and his arms come around her, lifting her into his chest as he slides inside her. It lasts and lasts and lasts, spun out between them like a fragile gossamer thread, and for a moment near the end he is back in the dream. He is standing at the bank of a river, and the air is golden in a way it can only be in the height of spring when sunlight comes through fresh green leaves. His feet are bare in the grass and it is soft under him, the sounds of water a constant murmur, holding the memories of snow. Her hair is wet and its long tendrils tangle in his fingers.

This fragile thing between them ends almost as it is beginning.

He feels her crest beneath him, his name on her lips, and he spills himself inside her, his face buried in her hair. But the name he speaks does not belong to her.

The moment those syllables pass his lips he knows he has erred grievously, and this mistake will be his damnation.

Hawke has gone still beneath him and utterly silent. The quiet rises up to dig its icy fingers into him, and for a long moment he doesn't dare move, doesn't dare meet her eyes. When he does, finally, he cannot be sure of what he sees there, only knowing with a sinking surety that with a single word he has shattered utterly the trust between them. The thought is fit to sunder what is left of his soul.

_Of course._

It makes sense to her in this moment, and she wonders how she could not have seen it before. Bethany and Anders… They had both been mages, had their magic in common, and that alone in her estimation would have been enough. But Bethany had been so sweet, so kind, so full of life and love. It spilled over into everything she did, every movement she made. Who could keep from loving her? Who could help themselves?

And this thing between them, this fragile, brittle thing… against her sister's name on the lips of her lover as they coil together in the darkness, it means very little.

_Of course,_ she thinks. _Of course._

"Hawke…"

_Hawke,_ she thinks bitterly. _Not Marian._ Still just the mask she wears for them, the one that proclaims her leader and worthy of their loyalty. The one she can never let slip lest they find out she is human, afraid and unsure as any of them. Of course.

It might have been different if he'd called her by her name, but he had not. She can wear any mask he likes, lover, protector, fierce leader or loyal friend. But she cannot wear a mask of her little sister's face.

She is out from underneath him before he can say another word, her hands reaching automatically for her armor and weapons the way one would reach for a blanket when cold. He can only watch her, the quick, deft movements of leather sliding into place, straps being buckled, laces being tied. Panic rises in him, its screams deafening his ears and making his mouth so dry it is a long moment before he can choke out words.

"Hawke, I… I didn't mean…"

_Hawke, again. Do you even know who I am?_

"It's alright, Anders." When she turns to face him, her expression is smooth, unreadable. _Just another mask, then. With you, like all the rest._ "I understand. You miss her." She smiles, but the twist of her mouth is forced; hideous, terrible, necessary. She has not paused in yanking the laces of her gauntlet tight. "I miss her too. She was the very, very best of us."

His hands ache and when he looks down he finds them twisted into the bedcovers, fists clenched so tight his bones hurt. He wants touch her, to reach out and pull her back down to him, to kiss her and love her until she believes in him again. Until he's driven out the doubt and made her to understand that what he'd said was just a mistake born of unbidden dreams. He wants to throw himself naked and pathetic at her feet, and beg her not to go with as many words as it will take to prove himself. A hundred. A thousand. As many as could fill a lifetime, to make this one thing right.

_Foolish mage,_ Justice whispers in the back of his mind. _How did you really expect this to play out?_

In the end he says nothing, not even as his body trembles and his eyes blur with tears and desperation. Justice is right. This is no more than he deserves. Quite a bit less, in fact. If she were to kill him now, to take one of those bright blades of hers and slice it cleanly across his throat, it would be every bit of a fate he's earned.

Then, her laces are tied, her buckles tightened, daggers slid home within their sheathes, and there is no more reason to stay.

When she turns, he finally finds his voice. It is strained and frayed and it makes her eyes squeeze shut with the hurt of it. "But your wound…?"

"Leave it, if you will. I'd like to keep it a while longer."

She flees in the silence that follows, as slowly and calmly as she can manage.

**

When she finally drags herself back to the estate, she finds her mother reading before the fireplace in the foyer, Hawke's loyal mabari dozing at her feet.

"Marian?"

The word, the sound, the shape of her name; it is just a cruel mockery.

"Mother. I didn't see light in the windows, I thought you would have gone to bed."

Leandra watches the profile of her daughter's face as Hawke turns to face the hearth, leaning over it with hands braced against the mantle. "I couldn't sleep. I wasn't expecting you home, though. I thought you'd be with Anders."

His name is a question, one she isn't sure if she trusts herself to answer. She does not often speak plainly of her personal life to her mother, especially not where love is concerned and all the things that come with it. Still, she has been few places but at Anders' side these past weeks, and her mother is not an unperceptive woman. She even hints approval now and again. She'd admitted that Anders reminded her of Hawke's father often enough, she could not very well be displeased.

But she didn't know the darkness within him. Justice was not a thing they spoke of, and while it was hardly unknown among those who fought at her side, she would protect this secret from her mother. He was a good man, still a good man, and she would not rob him of her mother's goodwill as she had robbed him of her sister. Not when he had so little left.

"We ended it tonight, mother." Her voice is smooth and plain, like a river stone polished away to nothing. "I ended it." She does not dare look into her mother's face, lest she see the disappointment there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The words are long in coming and carefully chosen, book put aside on the armrest of her chair. They are not the words of a mother comforting the hurts of her daughter, but then, Marian so rarely seems to want comfort or find it welcome.

When Hawke looks over, straightening finally, the mask she wears is light and smiling. "No, thank you though. It's a small thing anyhow, and it's late. I'm going to bed." She leaned over to lay a soft kiss against the top of her mother's head. "Don't stay up too late. I worry about you."

Leandra turns to watch her daughter go, watches the way her shoulders slump when she thinks no one is looking, watches the tired way she runs her hand through her hair, and knows that she has lied. Whatever has happened late this night is no small thing. It has taken something out of her girl, broken something that she doesn't know how to fix.

"I love you, Marian," she says quietly to the air.

But it is only Bethany's name that follows Hawke up the stairs.


End file.
